by Chris Tharp
Objective sorted.
We took the long way there, following a road that snakes alongside the Nakdong River, rising and falling from the valley floor. The hot day that I had predicted failed to materialize; instead, we had to contend with menacing clouds and periodic sprinkles. I had been so confident about good weather that I left my leather jacket at home and ended up wearing Will’s raincoat to stave off the chill.
We crossed the river and rode into the hilly countryside. Strange industrial parks were built up all through the area, sometimes side by side with tiny cattle farms, whose occupants were penned up in drab, metal barns. These industrial complexes are staffed mainly by foreign workers, working in jobs locally described as 3-D: difficult, dangerous, and dirty. This was evidenced by the many foreigners we saw along the side of the road–mainly darker-skinned men from Southeast Asia or the Indian subcontinent. Eventually, after leaving the main road for a narrow country lane, we came across some road signs guiding us to Bonghwa Mountain, the very place where the ex-President had ended his own life.
A tiny dirt road led up the mountain and ended at a temple on the top. We dismounted and walked to the summit, joining a small group of Koreans looking over to the rock face from which he had jumped. Straight below us was the President’s village of Bongsa, packed with mourners.
“Noh Mu-hyun?” I asked.
They nodded their heads in confirmation.
Will and I walked along the path toward the cliff, and began to climb. Part of the way up, we came across an ajosshi in a suit haranguing a security guard–who had obviously been posted to keep people away from the jump-spot. From what I could glean, he was upset about being barred from the exact spot of the leap, and that it was his right as a citizen of the Republic of Korea to go there. After calling the guard a motherfucker in Korean, he turned around and walked back down the path. Upon seeing us, he smiled and addressed us in loud but broken English.
“There!” [pointing to the top] “Noh Mu-hyun dive!” [mimes jumping] “Goodbye! Sayonnara!”
Laughing to himself, he walked away. I'm guessing he was a member of the conservative Grand National Party.
After getting as close to the death-cliff as possible, Will and I walked back to our bikes and made our way down the mountain. Along the gravel track, a skinny man in glasses flagged me down. He wanted a lift back down the mountain, so I obliged him. Just as he hopped onto my bike, the sky opened up with a barrage of rain. The various clouds had gathered to form one big, nasty über-cloud, and we were caught in the middle of a late-spring squall.
The three of us took refuge under a roofed entranceway of one of the buildings at a roadside industrial center. We smoked cigarettes and conversed the best we could. Our bike guest spoke swiftly and with a very strong provincial accent, so I missed a lot of what he was saying, choosing the good ol’ nod-and-smile most of the time. I did tell him that we wanted to get to Noh Mu-hyun’s actual village, and he agreed to show us the way.
After about thirty minutes, the shower abated, and we were back on the road. We dropped the skinny guy off a couple of kilometers from the village, and he pointed us in the right direction, which was obvious from the sea of cars headed that way. The police had the main road into the village blocked off, and like most everyone else (save a few bigwigs) we had to walk, so we legged it the three kilometers to the President’s village, joining thousands of mourners in what now felt like a pilgrimage. Many were dressed in black and held white carnations (a Korean symbol of mourning). A news helicopter buzzed the crowds and rice paddies that lay adjacent to the bucolic village. Bonghwa Mountain stood in the background, the sheer cliff face staring all of us down, a grim reminder of the reason for the gathering.
At one point a line of hundreds of Buddhist monks and nuns came walking from the mourning site. They wore matching robes and straw hats. The crowd of shuffling visitors split as the Buddhists made their way through.
As we came into the village, the crowd thickened to a jostling mass. A photo of the ex-President stood on an easel. Hundreds of people gathered in front of it, bowing and showing their respect. Another building contained more photos and a large book, where visitors could write notes of condolence. Others scribbled messages on yellow flags strung up around the village.
I was no fan of Noh. The man got elected in ‘02 by whipping up anti-American sentiment, by exploiting the accident in which the two Korean girls had been killed by the US tank. I wasn’t here then, but foreigners who were tell of a lot of harassment by angry, xenophobic Koreans. He also coddled North Korea, giving into their demands and sending them aid, without receiving a single concession in return. But for many Koreans–especially those who had come of age during the tumult of the 1980s–Noh was a hero. He rose from truly humble beginnings to the highest office in the land and was proof that the democracy they fought so hard for could actually work. The country went into full mourning, and for a full week performances were cancelled and many bars were closed, a rarity in this alcohol-fueled society. His suicide was an historic event, so I felt compelled to ride out to Bongha to check it out for myself. It was a strange and interesting day, one that reminded me to the bone that I live very far from home, that Korea–no matter how used to it I get–is very much a foreign country. I’ll always be an outsider peering in.
Dae Han Min Guk Pighting!
I’ve been in Korea for the last two World Cup Finals, though I wasn’t here in 2002, when they co-hosted with Japan. That year, under the tutelage of Dutch coach Gus Van Hiddink, the Korean national team made a surprise run to the semi-finals, taking out powerhouses such as Italy and Spain. They eventually finished fourth, exceeding most everyone’s expectations, including their own. The country went nuts–a kind of patriotic soccer mania that reached a fever pitch. I was living in Los Angeles at the time and took in many of the games on TV. I was astounded by the Korean fans–how they worked in perfect unison. Everything seemed meticulously rehearsed: the chanting, drumming, and singing; the brandishing of cards and massive flags. The pure fervor put forth by the Korean fans was in a league of its own–and this was as viewed through a television screen half a world away. To have been there in person must have been overwhelming. It was almost disturbing in its intensity and uniformity. What it immediately brought to mind were the synchronized routines of the North Korean crowds during their annual Mass Games. One could see straight away that the DMZ was only a political divide, that Southerners displayed their own nationalistic fervor in a nearly identical way to their Northern brethren. The power behind it was unmistakable, and with such a massive boost provided by its supporters, it’s no wonder their scrappy team almost went all the way.
Fast forward to the 2010 World Cup Final, where South Korea met Greece in their first match. I met Angry Steve and Sam in Seomyeon, Busan’s central downtown area. We managed to get a table at a small grilled meat restaurant, near where we had watched a Korean match at the World Cup four years earlier. The whole district–as well as the restaurant–was filled with locals sporting their red t-shirts. Many of the girls wore light-up devil horns–a nod to their team’s nickname, the Red Devils. When striker Park Ji-seung hit the first goal, the place exploded. You could hear cheering and people losing it throughout the whole city. It was as if someone had applied a lit match to a gas leak. Such enthusiasm was infectious, and the three of us were immediately on our feet, high-fiving and even embracing the Koreans, who were lost in the momentary ecstasy of a World Cup goal. We kept our eyes attached to the screens (there were two) throughout whole match, looking away only to refill a glass or tend to the sizzling pork on the grill. When the second goal was scored, the place once again blew up, and when the final whistle was blown, the whole of Seomyeon emptied out into the streets for a spontaneous party. Throngs of Koreans were singing and clapping. Groups of young men banged on drums. They all sported bright red, and many of them had small versions of the taegukgi–their national flag–painted on their faces. As we walked through the mass of p
eople–thick as grass–we were greeted by strangers. I kept shouting Congratulations! and clapping my hands as we pressed on, observing a pure joy and pride that’s not always so evident in Korean people. Everyone we came across was kind and looked us in the eyes, as if to say Welcome to Korea. We are capable of anything, even beating the best European teams at their own game. There was none of the anger, overbearing attention, or uneasiness that, as foreigners, is sometimes thrown our way. These people were confident, and confidence breeds no ill will.
On that occasion, and others like it, I found myself envying Koreans, if for nothing else than their sense of belonging. That night, it became nakedly apparent that these were one people, and that they relate to each other in a way that I would never fully understand. They knew exactly who they were and were very proud of what that was. They were Korean and experiencing it together. There was such an overwhelming sense of being part of something, of identity, of deeply bonded togetherness, that I found myself wanting to know what that must feel like. I grew up in an immigrant country with a short history. The culture that formed me is the most individualistic on the planet. I carry an American passport and speak American English and am a product of that culture, but I almost never feel American. I don’t have a great sense of American-ness. And now here I was in a country, that, though familiar, was still very foreign, and despite the fact that I had already been there for six years, I would always be an outsider. Just for once I wanted to know what it must be like to really belong, to feel the deep connection that was so evident among the Koreans chanting and singing in the street that night. I wanted to taste that thing that they had, but knew that however much I tried, I never could.
Some Things I Will Never Understand
Despite my feelings of otherness, after six years my comfort level with this place has grown immensely. Sure, I’m still stared at and giggled at least once every day, and I struggle to be understood in the language, but I do feel like I have a place in Korea, that after so much time living and working here I am owed a modicum of normal treatment. Often, when speaking with the locals in Korean–usually about what food I enjoy or which places I know–I’ll be honored with the phrase reserved for foreigners who have really made an attempt to fit in:
“Oh! You are almost Korean.”
I’m usually thrilled when Koreans say this to me. It validates my efforts to respect their ways, it makes me feel like I’ve made progress, and that, even if for just a moment, I am perceived as being less foreign than before.
But these attempts are superficial: I’ll always be a foreigner, and despite my periodic smugness, despite my feeling that I understand Koreans and their culture better than many other expats, something will happen to remind me that I really know very little, that I am still the consummate outsider.
“You are almost Korean.”
Almost.
About a month into the last semester, while teaching at the college, I noticed that one of my students was absent. He had come to every class before but had now suddenly stopped.
“Jae Yong?” I asked, scanning the room. Nothing. Another red slash in the attendance book.
This went on for a whole week. He had been a reliable student and was now nowhere to be seen. Despite this, I thought little of it. Students get sick; they suddenly go into the army; or, more often, just quit. On the following Monday morning I rolled into class and called out the names as I always do. Again, I got to his:
“Jae Yong?” Silence. “Where’s Jae Yong? Is he sick or something?”
The handful of weary students in front of me shifted in their chairs and glanced at each other. Finally, a young man named Jung-woo spoke up:
“Uhm… teacher… Jae Yong is dead.”
For a second I thought he was joking. I’ve had many students joke that their missing friends are dead. Young Koreans have a dark sense of humor in this regard. I reflexively attempted a grin, but from the mood of the others I could tell that Jung-woo was serious.
“Dead? Really? Oh man… that’s… terrible. What happened?”
“Car accident.”
“Wow. I… I don’t know what to say…”
It seemed that the other students didn’t either.
“Well… turn to page 32 in your books. Today we will be going over giving directions to hotel facilities….”
After class I returned to my office and went over Jae-Yong’s student card, which contained his participation and homework grades up to that point. I saw that he was a good student, headed for an A. Everything on the card reflected a success, and while it was certainly sad that this young man was no longer with us, it also bothered me that my boss had never even informed me. In fact, none of the foreign staff were told. Here I was reading a dead student’s name four classes in a row, thinking that he was home with a cold. What does it take to get notified? One would figure that the death of a student would be significant enough to warrant informing the teachers. I cannot conceive for a second why the boss would choose to withhold such information.
This is typical of working in Korea in that, as foreigners, we’re totally out of the communication loop. We’re really considered off the totem pole in this status-obsessed culture. It’s not that we’re too low or too high–we’re not even there to begin with. This cannot be changed. A foreigner in Korea will always be just that. No amount of language acquisition, soju tolerance, or chopstick dexterity will make up for it. You are an outsider, an alien. You can marry into a Korean family, become a Buddhist, and participate in their annual ancestral rites, but you will never be one of them. They will always consider you to be other, and as a result, it may not even occur to them to inform you when someone you know, teach, or work with dies.
Later that day, I went to my boss and told him what I had heard from my students. He got a very serious look on his face and said:
“Yes… it… it is true that Jae Yong is… is…” he searched deeply for a polite way to put it, but came up short: “dead.”
“What happened? A car accident?”
“Uhm… no. Not car accident. It is an issue for his family.”
“What do you mean?”
“His family does not wish to say how he died.”
“Okay,” I said.
“They’ve already had the funeral. They didn’t want to inform the students until after.”
It became quickly apparent to me that this kid had killed himself, hence the family’s reticence to discuss the cause. A sense of secrecy and shame permeated the whole discussion. It was almost like my boss was saying to me: “It is a sad thing, but better to forget and not mention it again,” as if speaking of it would invite a curse or cause the family even more grief.
Is that why he didn’t contact us? Out of deference for the family? Did he think we wouldn’t find out anyway? Didn’t we deserve to be told?
I love this country, but sometimes Koreans mystify me. I suppose they always will.
INTERLUDE: JUNE, 2010
TUMWATER, WASHINGTON
It’s a peaceful cemetery–but that’s what people always say, isn’t it? Except for a couple of maintenance guys, there’s no one here. Bunches of flowers give a break of color between the green of the grass and the grey of the headstones. It is quiet, and a slight breeze blows. So it is peaceful, save the hiss of the freeway, which filters in through the evergreen trees that ring the field of the dead.
I stumbled off the plane after sixteen hours of travel–not a deadly amount, but enough to make you loopy, especially when you don’t sleep a wink during what should be a whole night’s rest. This added up to two nights, if you count the one before the flight that I spent with my girlfriend Minhee, holding her and gazing into her eyes, wondering why I had to fall deeply for a girl just before a long trip to America. But I needed to come home, to see my family–both the living and departed. My sister is getting married and we are all going to gather for a happy occasion, a welcome excuse after being called home for sickness, bad news, and funerals.
Not knowing quite what to do, I bow before them, in the manner of a Korean ancestral rite known as jae-sa. This is not planned, but it seems appropriate. I am so seized with grief that the ground is the only place that makes sense, at least for the time.
After Mom and Dad, I make my way to the veterans’ section, next to the big Howitzer that marks the area for those who served.
“Can I help you?” a maintenance guy asks.
“No, I’m just looking for my grandfather’s grave.”
“What's his name?”
“Glen Christ-“
I look down and there he is:
GLEN CHRISTIANSEN
US ARMY MAJOR
WWII
I kneel down and kiss the stone, rubbing the smooth surface with the palm of my hand.
“Here’s a little something for you, Gramps.”
I open the bottle of Chivas Regal that I picked up in Narita’s duty free and give the grass in front of the headstone a generous pour. Gramps was never one to say no to a taste of Scotch, and I’m not about to deny the man, even in the afterlife. He was a second father to me.
Again I bow.
